Post Makes It Sound Like It's Over
by candy4yourEYEZ
Summary: America has PTSD, and his latest flashback is brought on by a thunderstorm. Canada tries to help, but ends up being helpless. The trauma doesn't end when the war does. Slight Americana/ MatFred/ Matthew x Alfred. T for angst


Canada walked downstairs, wondering who could possibly be at the door in the middle of this thunderstorm. Rain spattered his glasses as he twisted the knob and saw a shivering America waiting on his porch.

"Alfred!" He pulled the door open further, and America rushed into his house, lit by a flash of lightning, nervously looking back over his shoulder as thunder boomed.

"Mattie!" He squeaked, throwing himself into his brother, who reflexively threw his arms out and caught the distraught blonde.

"Shh, Alfred…" Canada stroked America's back gently, leading him over to the plush couch. "You sit here, I'll go get you some dry clothes." America shook his head vehemently, grabbing Canada's sweatshirt sleeve and clutching the nation closer, the power of speech seeming to have failed him in his terror. "Alright then…" Canada unclenched America's hands from his arm, and removed his overlarge hoodie, glad for once that his country was so cold he'd worn a shirt underneath it and a pair of gym shorts under his sweatpants to make sure he was warm and stayed that way. He peeled America's soaked shirt and jeans off, slipping the red cotton over his quaking twin, then quickly shed his sweatpants and loaned them as well. "It's alright, Alfred," Canada soothed as he set his love down on the couch and snatched a blanket to cover the both of them.

America curled into Canada's side, the latter cradling him as surely as their borders ran together, murmuring calming words in French and English as he rhythmically petted America's damp hair with one hand. Every time lightning flashed and was followed by thunder, America would cringe and whimper, and Canada would fret and hug him even closer, making sure America knew that no harm would come to him when he was with Canada. This calming method worked until one particularly violent cacophony of rips in the air, the sound seeming to swell and surround the both of them, almost shaking the house in its intensity.

"NO!" America yelled, thrashing in Canada's grip, his screams piercing and frightening, like he was caught in a bloody nightmare. Unfortunately, that's exactly what was happening. In America's mind, the thunder roaring was mines exploding, the flashes of lightning the flames accompanying the bombs. His throat felt raw from screaming, but he didn't realize that the tortured vocalizations were his own, he thought they were from injured civilians.

"Alfred!" Canada spoke louder, in an effort to make himself heard over his brother's internal torment, "Alfred, you're not in Iraq anymore, you're back home, you're not in the army, you're at my house, this isn't real, it's just a thunderstorm, calm down Alfred, Alfred, I love you, **please**…" Canada was crying now, rocking back and forth with his still shrieking brother, trying to snap him out of his flashback. "Please, this isn't _real_, Alfred!"

America gradually stopped screaming, tears running down his face, taking great big, shaky sobs, rubbing his eyes- his glasses had fallen off earlier when he was whipping his head from side to side to ward off the memory he knew was coming- and attempting to relax into the embrace of his twin, whose face was also tear stained.

"I-I'm sorry, Matt," America hiccupped, resenting the fact that he was this weak, that he'd come to Canada only to be reduced to a quivering mass by a thunderstorm. "I-I…"

"Hush, Al." Canada placed a warm finger on America's lips. "They call it post-traumatic… but it's not **post** for the people near you." Matthew hated the war, hated what it had done to his Alfred, hated how it made him lose his hero attitude, and changed him into a sniffling child. Hated how ashamed he knew Alfred felt.

"I'm still sorry though…"

"You don't have to excuse yourself." Canada placed a small kiss to America's forehead, and the two sat out the dwindling storm curled up on the couch. And Canada wished for the thousandth time that pills worked on America, that they'd make all the hurt go away, or that America could use therapy like a normal soldier would be able to. But because he was a nation, because his fear stemmed from centuries and many wars, not just the one going on in the present, he couldn't talk to any normal psychologist. Which left him crying on Canada's couch when he had to, numb towards those who cared about him, and trying to just get _over_ it…

Canada kissed America one more time, wishing childishly that all the bad feelings would just go away. Because, really, '_post_' makes it sound like the trauma is over…

* * *

Authoress' Random Ramble

Well, I wrote this little piece of sob at 4 am ^^ I'm not sure whether to be proud of my muse, or give her a hug and a cookie.

Less than three. Less than three


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